


We Are Not Tragedies

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Consent Issues, Demonic Possession, Demons Are Assholes, Derek Has Feelings, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Possessed Stiles, Rape/Non-con Elements, Talking about feelings is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is the one chanting in Latin, which is probably why the demon goes after him in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IndigoNight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoNight/gifts).



> **Content advisory:** Explicit non-con (not actually really technically within the main pairing, but kinda), mild violence, mind fuckery  
>  **Note:** Title from the poem [We Were Emergencies by Buddy Wakefield](http://poetryfoundme.blogspot.com/2011/03/we-were-emergencies.html).  
>  Written before the airing of Season 3B, and therefore totally noncompliant.

Stiles is the one chanting in Latin, which is probably why the demon goes after him in the first place. One moment Derek can hear him on the outskirts of the fight, reciting the exorcism he’d found online while Derek thrashes against the hold of the demon in a cheerleader’s body who has him pinned to a tree by his throat. 

The next moment, black smoke roars out of the girl’s mouth. She drops Derek, and by the time he wheezes in a breath and scrambles to his feet, the printout is falling from Stiles’ frozen fingers. His eyes are solid black. 

The demon tilts Stiles’ head to the side and stretches a grin across Stiles’ face that makes him look like a stranger. All of Stiles’ expressions—and Derek has been treated to a bewildering variety—have behind them the warmth of a life lived with breathless, headlong enthusiasm, but this look is cold as the grave. 

“Let him go,” Derek growls. 

“Uh, no,” Stiles’ voice says. “This one just tried to send me back to hell by the express route. I don’t think turning him loose is my best move.”

Derek curls his hands into fists until his claws draw blood. Their plan had been Stiles’, and it had been a good one, but this is a complication Derek can’t claw to shreds. “What do you want?”

“Just running some errands. But you,” he waves his hand to indicate both Derek and the body he’s currently inhabiting, “just couldn’t let me go about my business peacefully. You had to get nosy.”

“How many more high school girls were you going to possess, if we left you alone?”

“Relax. There was no permanent damage. Even that one.” He nods at the cheerleader, now trembling against a tree trunk.

“Run,” Derek growls. The girl wobbles to her feet and stumbles off into the trees. Derek spares only a moment to make sure she’s heading roughly in the direction of the road before he turns back to Stiles—to the demon. “Get out of him.”

“What do you care? He’s not one of your pack.”

“I said get out.”

“And I said no.” The demon offers a shrug, but even that doesn’t look natural. 

Derek has never seen Stiles so still. He uses his whole body to talk, eyebrows and hand-waving explaining at least as much as his endless torrents of words. But Stiles clearly isn’t driving right now, because the thoughtful smile spreading slowly across Stiles’ face has nothing in common with the person Derek knows. 

“Wait a second,” the demon drawls, unnaturally slow where Stiles words always run from his mouth like they’re on fire. “I think I get it, now.”

“What?”

“You know I can hear him? I can sort through all his messy little thoughts. It’s noisy in here, I’ll tell you that.”

“So get out.”

“There are some interesting tidbits.” The demon runs a finger across Stiles’ lips. “And quite a lot of them are about you, in fact. This one seems to have a vested interested in you. More than a friendly interest, to tell the truth.”

Derek snarls. “Do demons ever tell the truth?”

“More than you’d think.”

Derek charges forward, but the demon flicks his hand and sends Derek crashing back against a tree. The scrape of bark against his skin, the leaves clinging to his jacket, the fresh scent of blood—the small details fall away, because all Derek can concentrate on is the sight of those dull black eyes where Stiles should be.

Derek doesn’t realize he’s growling until the demon wags a finger at him—Stiles’ finger—and says, “Bad dog.” The demon reaches down to pick something up from the forest floor—the long, straight knife the cheerleader had been waving around. “Your kind never learn.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” Derek pushes to his feet and stalks towards the demon.

“Get back.” The demon raises the knife, then turns it backwards, rests the tip against Stiles’ chest.

Derek freezes. 

“You don’t want to have to watch him bleed out, do you?” He trails the knife down the front of Stiles’ flannel. “We don’t have to go that far, of course. I could take off a couple of fingers. I could—“

“If I have to break something to stop you, I’ll do it.” Derek takes a step forward, but stops when the demon grins, showing all Stiles’ teeth.

“I don’t need this,” he waves the knife, “to hurt him. I could take him out for a joy ride. His father’s the sheriff, right? What if we go back home, say hi to dear old dad, maybe choke the life out of him? I can be very creative when it comes to ruining people’s lives. Wouldn’t that be fun? Wow, the kid is not a fan of that idea. You should hear him scream.”

Derek grits his teeth. “I get it.”

“Do you?” The demon seems to take Derek’s silence for assent, because he slides the knife into the waistband of Stiles’ jeans. “Then listen carefully. I’m on a deadline, and since you interrupted Plan A, I’d appreciate your help with Plan B.”

“Which is?”

“I’m working on a little something that needs a boost of dark mojo. Now, lots of things _could_ provide that. A human sacrifice—“

“No.”

“I’m not finished. I can make do with less. A loss of virginity can provide that extra juice I need. So I’ll make you a deal.” The demon spreads Stiles hands wide. “Help me take this body’s virginity to power my spell, and I’ll give the boy back afterwards, only slightly used.”

Derek stares at the black eyes, at the grin, so close to the one Stiles uses after delivering the punchline to a joke only he thinks is clever. “You want me to--?”

“Fuck me, yes.”

“No.”

The demon frowns. He looks down at Stiles’ body, then back up at Derek. “Didn’t think it would be such a hardship.”

“It’s not a—I won’t do that to him.”

“Why not?” The demon lets Stiles’ mouth drop open slightly, and runs Stiles’ pink tongue around his lips. “He wants it. Has an impressive variety of fantasies about it, actually.” The demon prowls towards Derek. “Just this morning he got off in the shower thinking about you pushing him against a wall and taking him from behind.”

“Stop it.” Derek steps back when the demon reaches for him.

“Okay, okay, fine.” The demon walks Stiles back to the edge of the clearing and starts to pace. 

Derek steps after him, slowly, because he doesn’t want Stiles too far out of reach. He’s not letting Stiles out of his sight, not while a demon’s in him, and, if they get through this, probably he should keep looking out for Stiles for the next few weeks, just to make sure. Or months. Months would be better. Derek will look after him forever, if it means he never again has to watch a demon walk around in Stiles’ body, taking steps that are too long and slow.

“I can easily find someone else to do it.” The demon digs in the pocket of Stiles’ hoodie and comes out with the keys to the Jeep. “In fact, maybe just to make sure, I should find several someone elses. Wouldn’t be difficult, face like this. There’s a truck stop about ten miles down the road, open all night. I could—“

Derek grabs the demon by the arm. “You’re not taking him anywhere.”

“How you gonna stop me?” The knife appears in Stiles’ hand faster than a human should be able to move. Derek holds very still as the demon scrapes the knife across Stiles throat, gently. Then he presses the tip in, just hard enough to break the skin, and a single, bright drop of blood wells up.

“Wait.” Derek lets go, holds up both hands. “Don’t hurt him.”

The demon doesn’t move the knife from Stiles’ throat. “Ask nicely.”

“Please don’t hurt him.”

“Not convincing.” The demon tightens his grip on the knife.

“Stop!” Derek backs up one slow step, closes his eyes. He can’t fight this. Anything he does is going to get Stiles hurt. He can’t let Stiles get hurt, not because of something he’s done. He opens his eyes. “Please don’t. I can’t… I’ll do whatever you want. Just, please. Don’t hurt him.”

“Whatever I want?” The demon raises one of Stiles’ eyebrows, but it’s not as comic an expression as it usually is.

Derek nods.

“Good.” The demon drives the knife point-first into the nearest tree, then turns to Derek. “In my business, we seal deals with a kiss.”

“How do I know you’ll keep up your end of the bargain?”

“I’m offended!” The demon presses a hand to Stiles’ chest and delivers an eerily Stiles-like expression of mock-surprise. “We do follow some rules, you know. It’s bad for business if customers can’t trust us.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“But you don’t have another option.” The demon reaches out, takes Derek’s hand, and draws him in. Stiles’ skin is warm in the cool night air. His cheeks are flushed; Derek wonders if that’s Stiles’ reaction or the demon’s. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.” The demon leans forward and presses Stiles’ mouth to Derek’s. He’s warm, and soft, and he smells like Stiles—sugar rush and soap—but tainted with just a hint of sulfur. He opens up for Derek and pulls him in. 

If Derek had allowed himself to think about what kissing Stiles was like—and he resolutely had _not_ — he might have imagined this; Stiles pushing up into him, challenging, eager, making incoherent pleased sounds when Derek lets him shove his tongue inside, busy hands roaming over Derek’s chest, his sides, his back, greedy and curious. 

Stiles’ hands land on Derek’s waist and pull them together, tight: tight enough that Derek can feel the hard outline of Stiles’ cock, radiating heat through layers of clothes. Derek’s arousal must be obvious, too. Stiles’ skin against his, the smell of Stiles so close, has sent Derek’s blood rushing south with alarming speed. He’s normally so careful to avoid anything like this when it comes to Stiles—but this isn’t Stiles. 

Derek tries to pull away, but the demon gives Stiles unnatural strength. A hand on the back of Derek’s neck keeps him close while the other trails down Derek’s chest, then lower, to curl around Derek’s traitorous erection. “He’s not the only one harboring secret fantasies, is he?” the demon coos. “You want him, too. I know you wolves. You’re territorial. You touch this one all the time. Can’t keep your hands off him.”

Derek snatches his hands free with a snarl and shakes off the demon’s grip. 

The demon only smiles. “Stubborn. He teases you for that, but it’s pretty much all you have going for you, isn’t it?” The demon strips off Stiles’ hoodie, lets it drop behind him onto the dry leaves. “You watch him all the time—he’s caught you watching him.” The flannel goes the same way, peeled off Stiles shoulders and fluttering to the ground. “How far has it gone? Do you watch him in his room, changing?” He pulls off Stiles t-shirt slowly, stretching up as he does so to show off Stiles’ lean torso.

Derek’s eyes snap to the trail of dark hair leading down Stiles’ soft belly to disappear beneath the waistband of his worn jeans. The demon trails his fingers along the naked skin there; even that simple act sends a treacherous stab of arousal through Derek.

The demon smirks. “See anything you like?” His hand slides lower, to palm Stiles through his jeans. “Don’t be shy. He’s certainly shameless about trying to get you out of your clothes. You must have noticed that. You never objected.”

Derek clenches his jaw to keep from arguing. He won’t give the demon any more fodder for his sick games. Later, he’ll have to try to explain to Stiles—he hasn’t objected because he doesn't mind. He feels safe with Stiles, feels the pleasant weight of Stiles’ genuine appreciation in the way he looks at Derek, not the coldly aesthetic assessment Derek is used to. As a general rule, Derek doesn’t give away any of himself, not if he can help it, but with Stiles, opening up has started to feel less like losing a fight and more like turning on a light. He’ll have to find some way to explain that, some way to explain to Stiles how he’s the only one who's ever made Derek feel that way.

“Am I boring you?” the demon asks. He’s thumbed open the button on Stiles’ jeans and has his hand inside, stroking steadily. “Maybe you’ve seen all this before. Did you know he leaves his window open sometimes, when he goes to bed? He lies there in the dark, touching himself, imaging you’re outside, watching, listening to him. He fantasizes that maybe someday you’ll hear him getting off, coming with your name on his lips, and you’ll storm in, demand to know what’s going on, and he’ll apologize, and grovel—I think he might have a bit of a humiliation kink, to be honest—and it’ll all be okay, because you’re actually turned on, and you let him suck your cock. He likes to imagine being on his knees for you.” The demon presses up close to Derek, drapes Stiles’ body against his like a cat. 

Derek has smelled Stiles’ arousal before, though he’s tried to ignore it: traces of come smeared on Stiles’ sheets, or the flash he used to get talking to Lydia, or the time Derek had Stiles pressed up against the side of his Jeep, which Derek had failed to erase from his inconveniently good memory. But those incidents had only been drops in a bucket; here is the source, a river of arousal overflowing its banks and sweeping Derek along with it, eroding his control. 

“Stop talking,” Derek grits out.

“Give me something better to do with my mouth.” The demon slides to his knees. Stiles’ wide eyes shine in the moonlight when he looks up. 

Derek’s mouth goes dry. He can’t make any words come out, not when the demon unzips him and exposes his undeniable erection, and certainly not when Stiles’ plush lips wrap around his cock. Those eyes—back to brown now—stay locked on Derek’s as Stiles’ mouth pushes forward, sucking down the Derek’s whole length.

Derek takes in a sharp breath and digs his fingers into his thigh so he won’t try to grab Stiles’ hair. It’s too short to get a grip on anyway, but Derek could touch him—cradle his head, or stroke his thumb across Stiles’ cheek, maybe be rewarded by a self-satisfied smirk. But no—this isn’t Stiles, and the most enthusiastic, devastatingly pleasurable blow job in the world is not going to make Derek lose sight of that fact. He grabs the demon by the shoulders and shoves, hard.

“Pushy.” The demon pulls himself up from the forest floor and wipes the back of his hand across Stiles’ reddened mouth. “But he likes that about you. Personally, I think it’s a bit unhealthy. The memory of you throwing him up against the wall in his bedroom is one that gets revisited frequently and enthusiastically.”

“I would never hurt him,” Derek snaps.

“Please.” The demon rolls Stiles’ eyes. “You’re a werewolf. You hurt everyone you touch.”

“Not him.”

“Then you’d better use this.” The demon produces a single-use packet of lube and a condom from Stiles’ pocket. “Apparently he took to carrying these after a thwarted attempt to get rid of that troublesome virginity.” He tosses the packet up to Derek, but shoves the condom back in his pocket. “Latex messes with the magic. No good for these kinds of rituals.” He squirms out of Stiles’ jeans, wriggling against the ground. “No underwear,” he says as he kicks the jeans off. “Easy access. He has a few fantasies about that, too. Care to hear them?”

“No.” Derek is taking enough from Stiles without giving the demon an excuse to paw through Stiles’ private thoughts and drag out things he never meant Derek to know. “Be quiet.” Derek drops to a crouch next to where Stiles is spread in a long, pale line. He’s flawless, from his scraped-up knees to his inexplicably green-painted toenails, from his rounded belly to the fading summer freckles on his shoulders. Derek hasn’t let himself think about this, not ever, so the reality of having Stiles laid bare before him soaks into all his sense and hits his bloodstream like a drug.

“Come on.” The demon spreads Stiles’ legs. “I want you.”

The black is gone from his eyes, and Derek could almost pretend that welcoming grin is genuine, that Stiles does want this. But Derek isn’t one for willfully clinging to pretty lies. 

“Let’s get this over with.” Derek tears open the lube with his teeth and resolutely does not look at Stiles’ face when he eases a slick finger inside. 

The demon tilts Stiles hips up. “More.”

“Not until I’m ready,” Derek snaps. He braces an arm across Stiles’ waist to stop him squirming, and works him open slowly, carefully, only adding more fingers when he’s sure Stiles’ body has adjusted. He’s probably so deep on the wrong side of right that a little thing like this doesn’t matter, but he refuses to make this any harder on Stiles than it has to be.

“You know,” the demon says, as it traces Stiles’ finger down Derek’s arm, “you’re kind of a disappointment as a big bad wolf. I don’t think I’ve ever had to work so hard to get someone to do something they’re dying to do anyway.”

“Not all of us can have what we want.” Derek clings to this thought as he tries not to savor the way Stiles opens up for him. This isn’t what he wanted, not this way, and after this Stiles will never want Derek to touch him again.

“You’re an idiot, wolf boy. This one’s been panting after you for months. He’d have rolled over for you, happily, if you’d have said the word. Half a word, even. Don’t pretend you never smelled it on him. I know your senses can pick up all the signs that he wants you.”

Of course Derek can smell the want rolling off Stiles in waves, can hear the racing heartbeat. He can’t say he’s never noticed those things before, either, but that doesn’t mean the demon’s right. “That’s not him. You’re not him.”

“The body doesn’t lie.”

Derek’s wolf seems to agree. Everything inside Derek is howling at him to obey the signal, to take, to claim. “But you do.” 

“I never lie if telling the truth is more fun.” The demon throws himself backwards and writhes against the ground. He wraps his right hand around Stiles’ hard cock and squeezes. “Please, Derek. I need you.” He braces a foot against the ground, spreading wide for the taking. “I need it. Right now. Come on, please. I don’t want it to be anyone else. I’ve wanted this for so long. Take me, come on. I’m yours already, you know I am, just prove it. Derek!”

Derek is on Stiles before he realizes he’s moved. The pounce pins the demon beneath him, with Stiles’ naked body pressed against the length of Derek’s. The demon hooks Stiles’ leg over Derek’s shoulder, and from there it just takes a small shift. 

Derek slides into Stiles easily, like he belongs there.

A low moan escapes Stiles’ throat, and his cock twitches where it’s trapped between them. “Oh my god, Derek. That’s—oh my god.” Stiles’ hand clutches at the back of Derek’s neck. His hips buck up, taking Derek in deeper. “Move. Now. Please.”

“Stiles?”

“Please!” Stiles’ head tilts back, revealing the vulnerable line of his throat: submission. The wolf likes that. Derek surges forward, burying himself fully. Stiles slams back against him, open and eager. 

They set up a rhythm; it’s messy, on the edge of desperation. It feels like a sprint through the woods on a full moon. A fistful of Derek’s hair ends up in Stiles’ hand, and Derek is pulled into a rough kiss that turns into Stiles panting against his cheek each time Derek pushes into him. 

“Touch me.” Stiles’ voice sounds wrecked, as hoarse as if he’d been screaming from the sidelines of a lacrosse game or a battle. “I’m so close. Please, Derek.”

Derek shoves a hand between them, wraps it around Stiles. He’s fire-hot to the touch, and leaking pre-come. The panting breaths have turning into high, desperate sounds that double in volume when Derek starts to slide his hand up and down. 

“Don’t stop,” Stiles rasps. “Don’t you dare—oh fuck!” That’s all the warning Derek gets before Stiles spills between them, slicking his belly and Derek’s hand. The scent hits Derek hard—a richer, saltier version of the taste of Stiles’ skin.

Before Derek can think, his blunt teeth are gripping Stiles’ shoulder as he slams into him. He wants every part of Stiles. He wants everyone who know who Stiles belongs to. Nobody—no stranger, no enemy, no _demon_ \--is going to take Stiles away.

The end breaks open inside Derek like a flood wall, his completion roaring out of him and pouring into Stiles. The blood screaming through his body and the frantic pounding of his heart drown out all other sounds, so Derek is free to bask in the warm heat of Stiles’ bare skin, the smell of their mingled sweat, and—no, Stiles.

Derek jerks back to see black eyes watching him closely. The demon brushes Stiles’ thumb across Derek’s cheek. “Thanks,” he says. “Hope you enjoyed that as much as I did.”

“Get. Out.”

The demon contorts Stiles’ face into an exaggerated pout. “Manners, Derek. I hope this one is more forgiving of your flaws.”

“Out!” Derek roars. 

Stiles’ head snaps back; black smoke boils out of his mouth and rushes off into the night. Stiles drops like a puppet with its strings cut.  
***  



	2. Chapter 2

Stiles snatches a handful of Derek’s shirt and holds tight. The fact that his first act upon regaining control of his body post-demon-possession is holding back an angry werewolf probably says something unflattering about his sense of self-preservation, but it has the desired effect. Derek stops trying to pull away and stays braced over Stiles, caging him with his limbs.

“Wait,” Stiles rasps. He’s cold, and achy, and kind of damp, and he’s shaking a bit, but none of that seems so bad, because he can feel his body like it’s his own now. It no longer feels like watching a news report from his senses. Derek is a heavy cloud of anger above him. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. “Hey, I’m sorry in advance, but I’m going to need you to not run away just yet.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Derek sounds breathless, like he’s just gone ten rounds against the bad guy of the week which, okay, could be a loose interpretation of what just happened. In any case, Stiles feels his heart slamming against his sternum, probably unnecessarily loudly from Derek’s point of view, and all Stiles really did was lie here, so he can’t blame Derek for being winded.

“Actually, could you—“ When Derek starts to pull away again, Stiles tugs him back. “No! Stay. Please. Could you just…” Stiles can’t say “hold me” to Derek Hale, not even now, when he can feel Derek’s come starting to leak out of him. 

Luckily Derek, master of the unspoken, is able to interpret. He wraps his arms around Stiles and tugs. Stiles makes it to a sitting positions and lets Derek maneuver them until Stiles is comfortably settled back against Derek’s warm, solid weight. 

Stiles hopes the shivering isn’t too annoying. He’s lost track of his clothes, and it’s not that warm out. Luckily, Derek’s ridiculous werewolf heat, his body snug against Stiles’, seem to have an effect. The shaking fades, and Stiles can breathe again. 

The silence is starting to stretch precariously, and each passing moment surprises Stiles with its total lack of Derek-voiced protest. 

“So,” Stiles says eventually. His words seem to have fled, one in ten or so making it out to stand in for the rest of Stiles’ absent sentences. “Demon?”

“Gone.” Derek raises his chin towards the dark woods. “It got what it wanted.”

“Yeah.” Stiles swallows, hard. He’s trying not to think about what the demon might have done with his little power boost. “For now.”

“It’s not taking you again.” Derek’s growl radiates from his chest and rumbles into Stiles. “I won’t let it.”

Stiles nods. He doesn’t even mind that Derek’s hypothetical plan is probably something terrible, like, “bite disembodied supernatural entity with pointy werewolf teeth, repeat until problem goes away.” It’s the thought that counts. More tension seeps out of Stiles’ body, weight returning like his muscles are remembering who they’re supposed to answer to. With great muscle control comes great annoyance, apparently, because now Stiles can feel twigs and dry leaves digging into his bare skin. 

“So, clothes, probably.” Stiles tries to push himself up, but Derek’s grip tightens, pinning him. Derek’s attention is focused far away, off into the trees ahead. “What?”

“Sirens. In the preserve. Coming closer.”

“The cheerleader—Becky. She must have called 911.” While Stiles is glad she got help for herself, he could have used a bit more recovery time before moving on to the “destroying evidence” portion of the evening’s entertainment. “Help me up.”

Derek doesn’t let go. “We can wait until they get here. You should go to the hospital.”

“Wait until--?” Stiles squirms far enough in the circle of Derek’s arms that he can see his Derek’s face. He doesn’t look like he’s kidding. “Are you crazy? We can’t stay here. They can’t find us like this.”

“You’re hurt. You need—“

“Not that hurt.” To prove his point, Stiles tugs at Derek’s arms until he lets go. When Stiles pushes himself upright on shaky legs, Derek hovers, hands outstretched to steady Stiles if he falls, which Stiles is absolutely _not_ going to do, because he is _not hurt_. He snatches his muddy jeans from a tangle of sticks and starts tugging them on. “Come on. We’ve gotta get out of here.”

“You should at least—“

“We have to go.”

“I don’t want you to—“

“Just stop wasting time and help me find my shoes.”

“Stiles, listen—“ Derek reaches out, but Stiles snatches his hand away and cradles it against his chest.

“My dad can’t find me like this, okay. Please?”

Derek’s face scrunches, then goes still. At last, he nods.

“Okay.” Stiles turns away, starts scouring the forest floor for his shirt. When he turns back, Derek has Stiles’ flannel and hoodie draped over his left arm, and Stiles’ battered All Stars in his right hand. “Thanks.”

Derek circles the clearing, probably applying his expertise at making people believe supernatural creatures don’t exist, while Stiles puts himself together. “Is there somewhere we can go?” he asks when Derek completes his circuit. “Not my place.”

Derek frowns. “There’s my loft, but—“

“Fine, that’s great.”

Derek drives. Stiles doesn’t like riding shotgun in his own car, but he’s shaking again ( _shock_ , his mind supplies helpfully), and he is not going to survive a demon possession just to wrap his beautiful Jeep around a tree, thank you very much.

Derek opens the door for Stiles after they park, and keeps a warm, heavy hand on Stiles shoulder all the way up the elevator, through the door, and into the deserted loft. Once inside, they stand there in silence long enough for Stiles to conclude that neither of them has any idea what to do next. Luckily, Stiles has lots of experience in that department.

“So.” Stiles half-turns to face Derek. “I’m muddy and I bet I don’t smell very good.”

“You smell fine.”

“Yeah, well.” Stiles drops his eyes, because he’s pretty sure he smells filthy. On the way to the floor, his gaze catches on Derek. “I got your shirt dirty.” Stiles’ come is drying in spots and flecks across the front of Derek’s black t-shirt. A giggle bubbles up from Stiles’ throat, and then another, and then a whole, hysterical torrent spills out, unstoppable. Stiles is doubled over, clutching his knees and waiting out the giggle stragglers when he realizes Derek’s hand is still on his shoulder. He makes sure to stand up slowly so he won’t accidentally dislodge it. “Shower.”

Derek steers Stiles towards a hole broken in the wall—nothing so pedestrian as a doorway in this house—that leads to a smaller room with a toilet, sink, and giant clawfoot tub beneath a rusty showerhead. 

“Of course,” Stiles says. He supposes it’s still a step up from a burnt-out house or abandoned train depot. Stiles steps over the remains of some bricks into the bathroom, but whirls around when Derek’s hand falls from his shoulder. 

Derek is staring at the floorboards.

Stiles looks at the tub, then at Derek, then at the dark void of the loft beyond the broken wall, then at Derek again. “Um, can you--?”

“I’ll leave.” Derek turns.

“Canyounotdothat?” Stiles blurts out. Derek turns back, but only halfway. “I mean, you’ve already seen it all. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not… It’d be better if you were around.”

Derek looks like he’s being stabbed, repeatedly, but he nods. He wrestles with the knobs over the tub until the shower sputters to life. “The water takes a while to heat up.” 

Derek grips the sink with both hands and glares at the tarnished faucet while Stiles peels off the remnants of his torn clothes. Derek keeps up his contemplation of the plumbing when Stiles steps under the spray. His head snaps up when Stiles hisses—Derek wasn’t kidding about the temperature—but almost immediately turns away again.

Stiles refuses to budge from his place under the cold water, preferring the freezing rivulets tracing lines across his skin to the option of another moment spent marinating in the scent of his own shame: forest dirt, drying come, and spilled secrets. It’s not fair, he knows, to make Derek stay here for this, not after everything Derek’s already had to put up with tonight, but, well, life’s not fair. Sometimes a demon needs your virginity to power a spell. Sometimes a hot werewolf feels morally obligated to have sex with you against his will. Sometimes all your most private fantasies get dragged out into the open by a mindreading hell creature. Honestly, Stiles should have expected as much from his life at this point.

The water does, eventually, get warm. Stiles lets his forehead rest against the cracked tile. But once he starts to slide, he can’t stop himself. He ends up sitting in the bottom of the tub, arms wrapped around his knees, blinking water out of his eyes. 

The shower rattles to a stop when someone turns the knobs, and then Derek appears in Stiles’ line of sight, crouched next to the tub, heedless of the growing puddle.

“Derek?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“That… doesn’t really apply.” Derek pulls a blue towel off the rack next to the sink and drapes it around Stiles’ shoulders. 

Stiles catches Derek’s hands and holds them there, near the vulnerable hollow of Stiles’ throat. “Yes, it does. Thank you. For doing what had to be done. I mean, I know it couldn’t have been your idea of a good time—“

“No,” Derek says softly. 

“Yeah.” Stiles relinquishes Derek’s hands, setting them down on the lip of the tub. “So I’m sorry you had to do that.”

“Wait.” Derek’s frowning intently. “Do you think I…?” 

“What?”

“It’s not that…” Derek snaps his teeth together as if he could bite his words into submission. “I’m not saying…”

Stiles waits, wraps the towel more tightly around his shoulders, and lets the growing suspicion in his chest start to work its way to his mouth. “Did the demon lie?”

“What?” Derek’s eyes cut to the side, away from Stiles.

“When it said that stuff. About you wanting me?”

“No.” Derek pushes to his feet. “It didn’t lie.”

“Okay.” Stiles hoists himself up using the edge of the tub. He tucks the towel around his waist and rubs a hand through his damp hair while he thinks. “So you’re saying that in different circumstances…”

“They weren’t different. You couldn’t…” Derek’s hands flex and clench into fists. “You didn’t have a choice.”

“Not this time around, no. I’m not saying the situation was ideal, Derek, obviously. But of all the possible scenarios here, I say we count this one as a win.”

“A win.” Derek spins around to catch Stiles in his skeptical glare.

“I am fine.”

“You’re hurt!”

“So are you, apparently! With some kind of major head trauma!” Stiles steps out of the tub and advances on Derek. “Because I am not… unless…” He stops and squints at Derek, who won’t meet his eyes. “Was it, like, awful? Because that’s… If you didn’t want this at all, and you’re saying I’m not someone you’d want to… be with, like that. Then I guess, yeah, that must be kind of traumatizing for you.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Tell me what you’re saying, then, Derek, because I’m obviously not getting the message.”

Derek huffs a breath out and turns to face Stiles. “I’m saying I’m sorry. I should have figured out something else. If it had been different…” He shakes his head quickly. “You would have found a way to fix this. You wouldn’t have just… given in.”

“You did the best you could, Derek! Remember when I called this a win?”

“How can it possibly be--?”

“Derek, the alternative was that the demon took my body out for a joy-ride and had me fuck someone—or several people—that I don’t know and am not already in love with, okay? So yeah, I’d call this a win.” 

Derek has gone statue-still, and it’s only when Stiles mentally replays his last few sentences that he figures out why. He hadn’t meant to say that, the l-word. He’s barely let himself _think_ that word in the past few months, not about Derek, even though more and more of Stiles’ thoughts lately have started tangling themselves around Derek, as if he were a pleasant new water feature in the overgrown garden of Stiles mind, which apparently has lost the ability to create coherent metaphors. 

And yeah, it’s probably not fair to express the profound gratitude he has that Derek was there, since there’s no one else in the entire world with whom Stiles could imaging living through this. But he probably shouldn’t say that, because Stiles wasn’t the demon’s only victim tonight. He ventures a look at Derek, whose eyes haven’t left Stiles face. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Derek tugs a robe down from a peg wedged into a hole in the brickwork. It’s a dark red color, and threadbare. It smells like Derek. He wraps it around Stiles’ shoulders and leaves his hand there, half curled around the back of Stiles’ neck. “I’m not. I’m not sorry it was me. I can’t stand the idea of someone else… But it still shouldn’t have happened.”

“Bad shit is always going to happen. We live in Beacon Hills. Awful stuff will always find us. This wasn’t your fault.”

Derek pulls his hand away. “Stiles, we can’t ignore what happened. I ra—“

“Don’t,” Stiles snaps. “Don’t ever say that.”

“Fine. But I’m not going to forget, and I don’t believe you are, either.”

“I’m not saying it was nothing, all right? I recognize the legitimate need for, like, years of therapy, but what you’re saying—that’s not what happened between us. Listen to me!” Suddenly, two steps is too far away—Stiles has to grab Derek’s arm and pull him back, so he can say this face to face. “It’s not. And actually, what I have with you, I mean, whatever this is,” Stiles flails his free hand at Derek, “hanging out together avoiding death and maybe flirting, is one of the best things I have going for me. I mean, you’re one of my very favorite things, like, of all of everything, and that asshole demon is not going to ruin it for me, understand?”

“I’m not a good thing. You shouldn’t--”

“Don’t tell me how to feel. The demon was right. I would have said yes to you. And you just said you would have wanted it, too. And that’s… that’s not something I would have figured out on my own, probably. I’ll understand if you don’t feel the same way about me after… after what happened. But you should know I haven’t changed my mind about you. I meant what I said, before.”

“That you were already—“

“Yeah.”

Derek frowns down at Stiles’ hand still wrapped around his arm. “I can’t talk you out of it.”

“Uh, which of us is better at talking?”

“As measured in quality or quantity?” Derek asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Ha very ha. So no, I’m not budging on this.”

“Stiles.” Derek leans forward slowly, so slowly that Stiles finally has to put him out of his misery and lean up into the kiss. Stiles wraps a hand around the back of Derek’s neck and holds on, drinking in the warmth, heat, and rightness of finally getting to be in full control of kissing Derek Hale. He stays until he absolutely, positively, accept no substitute, has to breathe. When he pulls back, Derek comes with, leaning their foreheads together. “Stiles.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “You and me.” That’s enough to start with.


End file.
